


Fast hands soft touch

by monanotlisa



Category: Fringe
Genre: Bisexuality, Companion Piece, First Time, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Present Tense, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-21
Updated: 2012-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-31 12:42:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monanotlisa/pseuds/monanotlisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><strike>Look, ma, no angst!</strike> <i>Peter's a twenty-first century man; he knows about scales and spectrums and his own infinite adaptability. And yet. It's one thing to play others, another to get yourself entangled in a web spun half of instinct.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Fast hands soft touch

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Confidence Scam](https://archiveofourown.org/works/343567) by [rainer76](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/pseuds/rainer76). 



> Follows immediately after the story linked above, which you should read beforehand (AU after 4x08/09).

Lincoln does leave for Hartford the next day, a Friday, giving Peter space he doesn't know how to measure at this point.

The dull ache in his palm fades, but the physical sensation is swapped for something far less tangible. Going back to the lab only exacerbates the feeling because Walter is polite, concentrated, a slew of other terms that describe everyone else in the world better than Walter Bishop.

Funny that the man whose parental love broke a couple of universes is, in this one, ultimately swayed by romantic love, or rather the memory thereof. But Peter takes his chances where he can find them -- well, quite obviously he does, _see also: Lincoln Lee_. Peter's a twenty-first century man; he knows about scales and spectrums and of course his own infinite adaptability. And yet. It's one thing to play others, another to get yourself entangled in a web spun half of instinct.

Peter isn't sure about the other fifty percept prompting him to -- _go along_ , he wants to say, only that's not true and hasn't been for weeks. Breadcrumbs of broken code trail behind him on the FBI's servers, and he can't quite tell whether he's Hansel or Gretl in this modern fairy tale. Money changed hands -- not his, but money nonetheless, for goods and services rendered. Three frames of glasses probably constitute more courtship than most people, men or women, get in these jaded days.

Not that it was only Peter surprising himself. Lincoln by his couch-side that night; kissing him not much later, confident and demanding in ways Peter would have thought more in-character for the Lincoln one inter-dimensional bridge away. This (his) Lincoln's words, _I want to fuck you._

Peter closes his eyes, and when he opens them the equations on the board swim back into focus. For a while, anyway.

When he hears the scrape of metal in the door and the sound of Lincoln's steps, it's early still, warm Sunday light filtering in through the windows. _Hardest hue to hold_ , Peter thinks, and if he weren't sitting quietly at the kitchen table he'd swear to the tingle of static electricity. He puts his cup down and looks up.

"Hey," Lincoln says, and his face at least gives everything away: pleasure and desire and trepidation.

Peter leans back in his chair at the kitchen table. He offers a smile that he doesn't have to force, only smooth out a little at the edges. "Hey yourself. How did it go with Julie?"

"As well as could be expected." Lincoln's mouth quirks into a brave little semi-circle, "which is to say, not _that_ well. It was...comforting to be with her and the kids; they were glad to see me. It's Amy's birthday in ten days." He glances down, standing still right there between hallway and kitchen, in his coat and a ray of sunshine. "But misery doesn't love company, Peter."

 _Yours or hers?_ Peter wonders but doesn't ask. Both, most likely. Like love, there's no cure for grief, but Peter knows better than to offer trite verbal commentary.

"C'mere," he says, deliberate only from the very moment he says it, and when Lincoln puts his bag down and steps closer, the tingle has magnified into goosebumps spreading across the skin of Peter's arms. It's far too easy too soon, to take Lincoln's glasses off, curl his fingers around the back of Lincoln's neck, and tug. Lincoln tastes of coffee, but it's the cheap kind from an interstate gas station, no amount of sugar hiding the bitter undertones. 

Lincoln exhales and pulls back a fraction of an inch, pupils so blown there's little left of the colour of his irises. He brushes Peter's hands away when they try to pull him against his body because he's already busy shrugging out of his coat, his blue plaid shirt; they both make short work of the tight, tight white undershirt Lincoln wears. Underneath, his chest is all planes and angles and curves of a different sort. The morning light paints Lincoln's pale skin gold, his nipples a dark amber. Peter knows he's staring, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Lincoln smile. Peter's looked at guys before in the past and found them visually appealing, good for a brief _zing_ down his spine and worth a second glance sometimes, but before Lincoln there was never a move, never a touch.

No time like the present. Peter could fight or flee this wave of wanting, but he wants to ride it. He's been good at avoiding undertows all his life (except literally in this world, of course). Experimentally, Peter lets his stubble drag across the line of Lincoln's jaw and is rewarded with a gasp; nipping lightly on Lincoln's earlobe gets him a sigh. Lincoln's fingers have found their way under his t-shirt, trailing a not-too-light touch down the line of hair from Peter's navel before busying themselves with the drawstring on Peter's tracksuit. Between one kiss and the next, Lincoln puts his mouth to Peter's ear and, almost inaudible, perfectly resounding, says, "I still want to fuck you."

And just like that, Peter's hips are snapping forward against Lincoln's left hand, which lies in waiting, ready and sure and exerting perfect pressure before sliding inside his pants and around his cock. The little swipe of Lincoln's index finger against the underside of the head makes Peter's knees feel a little weak. Lincoln laughs, and sounds just as unsteady. "Please tell me that's a yes."

It's not a _no_ , at any rate. Peter swallows, breathes in with effort. "Lincoln. There's something you need to know." He clamps his hand around Lincoln's forearm, hard enough to startle Lincoln, his mouth a soft circle of surprise. Well, he's about to be even more surprised. "I hadn't actually been with a guy before."

"What do you mean; you -- oh." Lincoln very politely removes his hands from Peter's cock and pants, rubs them lightly, repeatedly across his own jean-clad thighs where the top button is already undone, perhaps from the strain on the fabric from the inside. Of course, in addition to being hard, Lincoln's currently thrown off-kilter. Which makes two of them. "You were so... I thought you were also into guys."

 _I'm into you_ , Peter thinks, only that's homophobic bullshit, and he feels the urge to make this house a bullshit-free zone as of today. It's safer not to let people into your mind, but a piece of it, freely given, makes it safer for the other person. Peter wants Lincoln not to look at him like this: as if he never knew him. It may be true, but it may also be true that it's time to change just that. "Seems I am. Sometimes." He snorts, hardly suave. "Trust me when I say this is not an epiphany I thought I'd have at thirty-three."

Lincoln stares at him for a moment, then glances away. "Yeah, you're not the first one this happens to." The grin on his face is a little shaky. But it's also radiant. "Although I feel pretty qualified to state you're probably the best."

Peter feels himself grin too. "What can I say; I'm a quick study."

"Apparently." Lincoln's finding his footing; that came out almost as dry as ever. "Care to study some more?"

And yeah, Peter does. At length and in depth: By the time next Sunday rolls around, Peter's on his back, one hand clenched into his bedsheets and one around his own cock, holding his orgasm back. Lincoln is driving slowly, sweetly into him, bends forward so fiercely just to kiss Peter until Peter shudders, endlessly, and doesn't have to fake anything at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to: [](http://samjohnsson.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**samjohnsson**](http://samjohnsson.dreamwidth.org/) for beta and [](http://norgbelulah.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**norgbelulah**](http://norgbelulah.dreamwidth.org/) for a preliminary thumbs-up  
> 


End file.
